Diary
by Reader-anonymous-writer
Summary: It's a diary made during my one-month long abstinence from this website. Not a: list, poll, preview, challenge, author note, or script. Not interactive. Is it a story? Decide for yourself. It's continued with time, but slowly.
1. Riddle

My absence should have lasted only a week, not more, should it not?  
A promise was left by me, but a longer 'leave' I have accidentally got.  
I have, truly to my word, left neither reviews nor messages on website:  
And I have read neither messages nor updates, as written in compact.  
Literature, fiction, however, I have read a lot, of various time and genre.  
Read of another Earth, of technology both advanced and out-of-date,  
Of masonry and Order; of capitalism and slavery; of golfer and sniper;  
Of wars, fights and plots; of secret-service agent and an office-seeker,  
Hyenas and serpents, gangsters and scientists, arrogance, devil's luck,  
Scum of society, rich and poor, strong and weak, in mind and body,  
Deliberately primitive society armed by highly developed technology,  
Camaraderie, kaleidoscope, of both rich and dull colours; of new life,  
In the new lands, with new rules, of freedom, of nature unseen, wasted.  
Read of our Earth, of technology antique and by now forgotten and lost,  
Of stone garden and thorn apple, of azure magpie and snow white swan,  
Of golden whip and aerugreen lizards, of golden hair and the blue snake,  
Of stone and metal, of serpentine Andes, of stone giants and the people.  
Read of our Earth, of the war past, of the morals that forever truly last,  
Of scientist and professor, of pastor and general, of their brilliant mind,  
Of life and death, of truth difficult to prove, of poison of voluntary kind,  
Of philosophical and logical arguments, of guessing an opponent's move,  
Of mind games, of tangential clues, of spy and professor of mathematics.  
I hope I manage to write a chapter while travelling through thorns to stars.  
I can hardly see the stars for planes' lights, heavy smoke of plants and cars.  
I am tired, I am tired, I am tired... Bored and exhausted from book-running.  
Classics I look for, classics I seek, classics I find which I have already read.  
Some classics forgotten enough to read once again, like visiting a starry shore.  
Some classics welcoming like an old trusted friend, like the man who laughs.  
Ursus, lupus, homo... Even though I know the end of the book, I still absorb  
Each and every detail of your life, of your travel, of your both past and present.  
I have too many things which should have been done yesterday, before today,  
And yet I waste myself away by allowing mind, imagination to run freely astray.

I wish to literally grow thin from worry, about lack of any exercise I am sorry...  
There might be people who are duller than me, who know only one language,  
Who have not received education above necessary, who had F&C at school,  
Who work as automatons, accountant or secretary or or cashier, work dull...  
But for me, my life seems dull without purpose, without a goal, skill or talent.  
Sometimes, I suspect an obsessive-compulsive disorder: I can be a pedantist;  
When given the luxury, given by myself, I tend to express my inner perfectionist.  
Sometimes, I think, I have a multiple personality disorder; at any time, unfocused,  
I could be a historian, looking for missing pieces in patchwork of place's evolution,  
I could be a journalist, connecting similar events in different places for a picture,  
I could be an explorer-biologist, indexing species new and old, the variety untold,  
I could be a linguist, learning languages dead and evolving, their beauty behold,  
I could engrave stone and carve from jade, forge animals with silver and gold...  
I couldn't manage time, my own or somebody's else, for myself or anybody else,  
I couldn't manage time for hobby, pastime, sleep and food, pleasure and business,  
I couldn't be an accountant, a clerk, a manager, a legalist, a marketer or advertiser.  
Sometimes, I wonder, can I reach anything, do anything, save anybody, anything,  
When I hardly have focus to stay alive, to breath, to sleep, or to brush my teeth?  
I am afraid of any noise, for yelling and loud noises bring only sheer destruction,  
I am afraid of any voice, for situation not resolvable in silence signals desperation,  
I am afraid of any choice, for with time any choice will bring regrets and sorrow.  
I am afraid of myself and my own shadow; I jump like a mouse, out of my skin.  
Unshed tears in my eyes, for fears forever rise; I envy snake's shedding of skin.  
I may be stubborn like a wild bison, but my strength is weaker than of newborn.  
These lines likely make no sense; for that, I would like to apologize, in advance.  
But it's late, isn't it? I am late even when the plans are made weeks in advance.  
Storm is advancing towards us, and shrouds the stars distant behind its clouds.  
Like weeping willow, I have many problems, like long leaves, hanging, pendent.  
Like whomping willow, I wish could be from all these problems self-protected.  
If I am laughing, if I am smiling, if I am polite and charming, it means that I am sad,  
Disguising, from myself and others, reality, which would otherwise drive me mad.  
For my stubbornness and inability to manage the sand of time I suffer the infliction:  
Sticking to my beliefs is bringing me, down the river of time, to needless conviction;  
In uncertainty and confusion, I am working at what might be life-changing decision.  
Don't worry about myself, even if I do; I am silent bark in the dark and no sharp bite,  
I am pacifist, I wouldn't take anybody's life; I am tolerant, I hardly ever choose a side.  
While my admiration of navy, duty, freedom and fighters might seem like childish naviety,  
Refreshed and fortified by Fleming's James Bond and war thrillers from pen of Tom Clancy -  
You would find that of James Bond I am not in the least fond, and different books I fancy:  
I held Sphinx, Chimera, Sea-unicorn, Dragon, Sherlock, Vulcan, Serpent in great honour.  
I do not crave - I shy and even recoil away from - others' blatant admiration, awe, or fear,  
I do not want these, or any similar, emotions from others so sharply to feel, to see or hear.  
There is a thin and vague line for both ailing and healthy between a medicine and a poison:  
It may be crossed by drop of additive, touch of impurity, inexact dosage, imprecise timing...  
So I do not want to be exceptional, to determine future of country, continent, world, nation,  
To be the others' only saviour, the last hope for salvation, their only source of determination.  
Management, control, administration are not a source of power, but heavy, as duty, obligation.  
Trite some words are to me, like: Nightmare! Night-mares, in my humble opinion, should be.  
Black stallions beautiful in their endless flight, Together they should be flying with the night,  
Concealed safely under the night's long wings, While the night a duet with thunderstorm sings:  
Of faraway stars and thorns, of hoofs and horns, Of approaching deaths and infants newborns.  
This is a diary, and a riddle, but you, the one reading it, should both question and answer guess,  
And then the riddler should reply with more hints about where the answers to your questions lie.  
You can be curious as a cat, the riddler admires cats, so for your curiousity you shall not here die.  
I had wished to publish the joke during first day of April, but, predictably, I am once again late,  
I can only hope that this riddle, these lines shall be published soon with help of gracious May cat.  
Loneliness: No human can be a god, or a sole world overlord,  
for no human can ever possibly stay sane in loneliness if unmatched he does remain.  
No human can ever become a demon, become villain touched by no sermon,  
for no human can ever survive the loneliness's strain when not a place in his heart for people does remain.  
No human can ever, without losing his soul, become an angel, without forgetting the people with his whole heart he loved,  
for no human can be objective in judging those whose culture he has left, who were and still remain his native brethen,  
when from his home he was suddenly detached, when he became alien to himself, and was from familiarity deprived.  
No human can ever, without losing himself, repair, restore everything to perfection, for neither he, nor any other living human, would be able to be without insurrection,  
for there would be nothing to change, nothing to improve, nothing to imagine, in the world where everything is already finished,  
and humans, with their 'annoying' stubbornness of moving forward, would not tolerate such a 'divine' completeness untarnished.  
Thus, a god, a deity, would have to be lonely and objective, in perfection still as death, would have to show to the people a continuously changing, difficult to remember face,  
to avoid terminating, by complete perfection, of human progress the infinitely long race, and only a thin line, easily crossed and by eyes unseen, would separate god from demon.  
Diamond: cold as ice, cold as space, fiery like a star, white blaze, not a burning torch, but a blinding glare, of the looking human soul withering stare.  
Death: To which deity, to which divinity should I from within my soul pray when in my life troubles I face,  
To whom should I appeal, whom should I turn to with whole heart, if not the grim and just Death?  
Fate and Destiny, in my stubbornness I refuse to bow to inevitability; please, accept it with grace.  
Life is the one who put me onto stage, in front of the obstacles through which I shall have to race:  
Thank you, but no thanks, I don't wish to be even more obliged to the one who has given me trace.  
Time waits for no human; deaf to mortal pleas, speed and direction of the time flow constant stays.  
Death... might be inevitable, but death is precise, just, and allows human to fight, and win at times.  
My favourite colours, views, animals: white, blue, green, black, silver; snow, night, leaf, space, star;  
Owl, bat, mantis, stallion, wolf... White snow owl with black stripes, bat gracefully flying in the blue midnight,  
Leaf-green mantis in the trees, black stallion galloping amidst silver starlight, and silver wolf, howling, moonlight.  
Dracula: Beauty eternal, clear as crystal, fragile - frail like glass, ruby - sapphire eyes, cold akin to snow - ice...  
Do not sweep aside words of people considered insane, for they might see beyond what is seen by people sane.  
Do not allow prejudice and so-called common sense stand in the way of the indescribable reality you sense.  
Do not attack another when you have not seen through his eyes, when you have not heard his explanation...  
Do not condemn what you do not understand; who are you to judge, harshly, without any comprehension?  
Do not kill the other just because you do not understand him, just because you, fanatic, bigot, are too dense.  
Do not feed the bonfire of lies by pouring oil of vivid imagination on the flames of the inquisitional prejudice...  
Dan: Dan, you wish to be better than a blood-sucking monster...But a bloodsucker is not - is not - a monster.  
Who is? Who is? The one who kills, pain inflicting sadists, who others destroys for pleasure, whims.  
Whine: Where will you run, where will you hide, where will you go, when there is nowhere to run anymore?  
How will you breath, when your breath is slow poison to others? Will you ever be able to feel fine?  
What will you eat, how will you feed, when the food sticks in your throat, reminding of others' famine?  
By Dracula's hand, he is ruthless, cunning, wily like a true Slytherin, crediting both basilisk and bat!  
Death is life's end, your thought's end, defeat and loss, which cannot be described until felt first-hand.  
Vampire and spirit out of tune: What good have people done? Wars, experiments, and terracide...  
Meek: We live, as the three musketeers, all for one and one for all, surviving in the jungles of our home,  
Fighting not for more, but for less, and dreaming of other worlds, where people burn fats not by sports.  
Isidro: I hope you are wrong, and those who do not belong with you, do not wish to stab you in the back.  
Asher: How can you think about supporting the person whom Isidro asked you to find, who killed people Without reason, without regret, on coward's whim, or even worse, due to the blatantly vicious racism.  
I know, as agent, you killed people to protect the Queen, Great Britain, United Kingdom, your home,  
But nobody has given this human a license to attack vampires - he has no right to represent humanity,  
To decide on their behalf, to declare war on vampires, who are not necessarily threat to the humans.  
Desperately - who are you to judge, to decide, that they must die, to take their lives, to destroy their souls?  
Viciously - who has died and made you God? What right do you have to bite the hand that begs for help?  
Desperately - do you believe yourself to be the hero, the saviour who rescues the humans from monsters?  
Hopelessly - are you stupid enough to attack them just for being of different kind, not understood by you?  
Viciously - do you have neither honour not heart, to attack those who ask for help and did not harm you?  
I would have wanted to help them, sincerely - because nobody should be attacked because he exists...  
I agree, some vampires are too arrogant, thinking that a human would have no silver talisman with him...  
Curious... Only a fool would have employed a human to catch a human hunter who kills vampires - thus,  
The hunter, who kills vampires, is a vampire himself, who, somehow, is not killed by the rays of the Sun.  
There is not enough trust in this world, and I would have liked to meet Isidro, as he is a man of honour.  
Thank you, Antony... It's not a human. - We are not, either. - But you are! You think, therefore, you live.  
Hunting in the night... I respect you. Don't you dare to say that you are not humans, that you are inhuman!  
To play yourself during the festival created in your honour, during the half-century of your absence, sleep...  
Let it be known that Russian roulette was invented by vampires, thanks to the incredible tedious boredom.  
For the first time in all hell's time the music "Metallica" began to warm his heart and sooth his tired mind.  
Death is not the worst choice, especially if there is afterlife, especially if Death is a sentient, wily, wise being:  
The worst choice is when there is no choice left, non-existence, when you can neither think nor act at all.  
In the old days, ladies travelled with killers constantly; it's quite reasonable, considering need of protection.  
Instead of magniloquent and vague rounding off I prefer clear and concise mathematician formulae, mon cher.  
Lydia, are you blind, cannot you at all see? Isidro isn't as immortal as he seems to be. Steady, persistent, to break oath refuses he.  
Accept us as we are, not as you want us to be. A wolf, a bat cannot become a horse or a dolphin just because you wish so.  
Wolf eats graceful deers; horse eats beautiful flowers. Bat hunts for butterflies; dolphin kills fish. Beauty in the eye of beholder...  
Praying for the night to begin anew, for scalding sun to go down, for burning rays to disappear, for shadows and rain to heal...  
Please, do not wake me up! I would like to forever sleep, and in the night to dream up the starless darkness deep.  
In such a long time I have not had such a good laughter... Break, cold dead heart, break, clear open heart, break, ice crystal heart ...  
Easy way falls down to evil, thorny path leads to justice, and flowers lure to faeries... I would choose to walk path through thorns.  
Why? I don't believe in absoluteness of evil, but lazy sleep is not for me. And the fragrant flowers don't call me like sound of horns.  
Per aspera ad astra, through thorns to stars; and I wants to visit stars of the unknown instead of flowers of overpowering illusions.  
Second Life is attractive, like a death's herb, but I will not waste time on joining virtual reality with unnecessary, excessive haste.  
I would prefer for it to be not a simulation, but existence after life, governed not by a human programmer, but by Death itself.  
Vlad was cursing his stepbrother out, sweared thoroughly, methodically and coldly, in archaic German, with three-story structures,  
When an interpreter was asked to translate the long-drawn-out monologue; the translator, wanting not to offend ears of the miss,  
Managed to replace obscenities with cordial greetings, leaving only dead structure in place; even Vlad himself stopped speaking.  
Do not, please, do not agree with plans of your enemy, do not allow him to bind you, and your actions, by his rules of the game!  
Coward-scoundrel Radu, how mistaken are you? To live running, killing, torturing, without reason, poisoning everybody's existence,  
Is not to live, but to survive, to rot away and off, waiting for griffin to clear nature of such a degenerate, for cleansing fire and flames.  
I hope there is hope for Radu. I hope he has found his true love, and will live in peace. I hope Vlad will not attack him as revenge.  
It would be useless. Vlad has found Lydia, and Radu should be forgotten by him. Ashes of vengeance would taste bitter on tongue.  
In time, under Moon and elsewhere, amidst the stars, all will be found, lost and gone, in fire, only to rise later from the dust like ashes.  
Pineapple juice was trickling, clear as of hot shining summer sun a tear... Have you lost your dear werewolf? Maybe, you are looking for A vampire who got lost, who lost his way? Or did somewhere disappear zombi, who used to be your childhood playmate? Turn to LAF!  
Vampire by necessity, or by your own will, through your own choice, I shall still adore count Dracule, be thrilled to hear of vampires voice.  
Vampires attack you only if you attack them first? Then anybody reasonable should ask potential enemy whether he is a vampire beforehand.  
I regret that my canine teeth are not sharp enough to bite through my lip, to cause the cold blood in my veins to flow bitterly onto my tongue...  
I like and respect Herman, ruthless but not sadistic, sincere and cunning, straightforward and stubborn, self-respecting but not arrogant, strong.  
Don't worry, everything will be all right, they shall not see me during this night, they will only see a wandering dog who is lost and looks for way home.  
I would have liked to meet Death, to speak with Death; or, at least, with three-headed dragon, this cold, fierce, and unsociable son of blood and war.  
I am a wanderer caught by the web, ensnared in it, and lost; I would have liked to be a free wanderer, an easy traveller, but am I strong enough for this?  
Could I become a pioneer, in this society, despite my intense dislike for people, my inner conflict of altruism and misanthropy, through clenched teeth?


	2. Needle

God or devil - all the same over them hangs a curse. Not of good or evil game, but of indifference heartless.  
Don't pretend you do not care, such deceipt would not fare well.  
I shall not ever forget my password, for I have forgotten my secret word. It is a hilariously sad, sad, sad world where you can forget your inner self And yet still keep your name intact... It remains the strongest link, in fact, to the memories of your goals past. Forgotten your name will be the last,  
As the least painful, the most objective, the least replaceable of your subjective knowledge of Earth, of world, of life.  
These books, this day, I can hardly read more: my brains, and most importantly, eyes, are sore. Mine stubbornness is shattered at its very core. Insipid to me are these modern stories, folklore.  
And still, I shall be trying to write of them more. I have no time at all left in my poor unlucky store. And it's not like I have ever had any luck before. But I shall continue with my self-imposed chore.  
In vain hopes of breaking out of this gold cage, where thorns are already seen, felt at this stage, before gold and thorns turn into ashes and dust, for strength and resilience shall not forever last,  
And the crumbling roof of the timeless, old jail shall once again too quickly on my head fail. But I shall not, will not, to fates show my tail. Even if it is my destiny to die on the future's rail.  
I will still go forward under the heavy, painful hail.  
I am an ugly duckling who will not become a swan, for life is not a fairy tale, and not even friendly gale would be able to aid me, to raise me to bright sky, when on broken wings I do not even attempt to fly.  
Curiosity killed the cat. Satisfaction brought him back. I wish life was like that. Against me is stacked the deck.  
The new technology will be biological. It will make everything else obsolete. This conclusion is completely logical. Human and nature each other complete.  
I have read of an enchantress escaping a fairy tale to visit another world, to leave the mouldy castle, and I have not liked her, for emptyheaded, unthoughtful and careless, other people using, she was.  
And fittingly, her splitting, her other-world double, was a lazy, flippant, heedless and failing student... I had not the patience to read any further in my ennui; yes, to use obscure, useless words I am free.  
I wish I could say that there is more to me than your eye can ever see but I am merely clay.  
May you, adversary or ally, hopefully live in interesting times, for boredom is not the punishment for even worst of crimes.  
May your life, optimist or pessimist, hopefully be a better life, for mine seemed, as far as I know it, beyond hell on Earth.  
The song of life pours from strings, from all four sides the death rings.  
The Savior shall not arrive on a white horse. Purehearted human is not found on our Earth.  
The song of life pours out in fear, the knell of death I seem to hear.  
Who is human for you? Who is he to you? By yourself don't judge others.  
Life from strings pours out as blood, of the death sad knell against background fell.  
Stone throw if you are pure, if to yourself you don't lie without conscience, or boundaries.  
Life pours from strings as a song, of death the bell sounds the mellow chime.  
Don't judge others, not knowing their life, from all sides; please, be just and merciful.  
Life tears strings of heart and mind, the peals of death are silver as the stars.  
I wish to become piece of ice. Infinity's song is heard then. Life in heart painful like fire. Death stifles this flame by ice. Ice and me, embrace of ice.  
The snake of death, know then: In boredom, you are not alone.  
Life: in heart smouldering ashes. Death puts out by running water.  
Time not enough. Will light disappear? I do not have four hands, I get all the dead ends, or are they uncharted lands?  
Down the asphalt river of the metallic shoes, coffins torrent flows, through the frozen earth of tundra the fuel, crude petrol, goes.  
All the green earth they will thus burn to ashes, give them time, better they would have been the sun rays turning into electricity.  
The rain falls, the drops fall down... The rice is flooded by sea tide. Circling round and round the vultures are, above the blue marble...  
Brass feathers of gigantic warbirds down fall as the sharp arrows.  
Yellow sun from the red sea daily rises onto the velvet-black sky.  
Weeps, cries the heaven, laughs the earth, as the world we destroy. Unfortunately, 'bellum omnium contra omnes' is not just a nightmare.  
Too much - like microbe and grass, an ant, the Earth - is by now at stake. There is no logical and easy connection within this weave; it's not a fake,  
Created by the mass-producing happy-enders at Hollywood for money; it's life, it's strife, within my head, it's insanity, I will somewhen be dead,  
But the rhymes might survive, and these lines might be alive long after.  
Morning cold, green mountain grass joyfully glistening with dew, paved with yellow bricks serpentine footpath surrounded by yew,  
Hot stifling day of summer brightly burned by rays of blazing sun, steadily forward you, a mortal human, may still stubbornly run,  
And the black thundery sky with the far away silver stars spangle. Blue moon of miracle workers is, unfortunately, clearly on the wane,  
Humanity might naturally, willingly, continuously be the Earth's bane.  
Do you see any difference between the selfless, idealistic altruism and the world-renowned misanthropic, selfish, realistic egoism?  
Both of them are looking towards the highest possible at all gain. So sad and pessimistic shall be these long lines of written refrain.  
Imminent irreversible planetary collapse is predicted by students, ecological, economical destruction is being modelled by scholars.  
People continue their business-as-usual, amused and entertained by news, they are not changing even when they are worried and share these views,  
But most often they disregard them as problem outside of their backyard. However, quite soon the mistakes, the underestimation of hurt they shall find.  
But it shall already be too late to avert this approaching fate, and people shall fight and hate, each other attacking as bait.  
State shall fight against a state, wars running at fastening gait, by destruction known the date. Then a mate shall betray a mate,  
Rancour unearthed soon innate, humanity's shall jump the rate, up or down ecosphere's scale, either by most humans dying out,  
Or by their old culture giving out: either living under earth in caves, moving quickly outside into space, or using nature, ocean, atmosphere,  
To live with this large, and growing, population and not having to burrow deep underground, to fly outward, or to be penned up together.  
Let the life be an eternal dream, imbued with inquisitive study; let the retirement be a perpetual nightmare, intertwined with fear of death...  
To live at present I want, to live in the moment, as a shooting star, not to look for fleeting fata morgana, the disappearing optical mirage,  
Even as my life is at present, and through the past, seems to be a steep turn for my paper water craft, my travelling in the turbulence ship,  
And I have to hope, when there are no roots for hope to survive, that people will half-century later still be alive, on this Earth spaceship.  
We used to know where, to which goal we run, but no longer about possible ends I give a darn. In this world, possibilities are endless.  
People fight, against others and themselves, with teeth and nails, with fangs and claws, winning, at most, from their troubles a temporary reprieve.  
It is as if to think about others and themselves the worst they consider it normal, and aim to cheat as much as they can, glad to successfuly thieve.  
Amidst the small day-to-day details, the money and whatever it entails, the people have no time for destruction of nature, loss of culture to grieve.  
By jumping through the hoops, by nurturing the bureaucracy all over the world, and its control over the citizens, what are you hoping to achieve?  
You are like a child, distracting with music jerkily flowing from fortepiano, throwing everything to the floor, running quickly through the door.  
Attention mine you are detracting, it's fault of mine for not departing in time to avoid this deadly moor, I cannot pretend to be a victim poor.  
I wish I could somehow board the Train to Nowhere, but if it was at all possible, people would quickly hoard these trips to somewhere,  
Neverminding the obvious and unknown danger, welcoming, like smoke, of terror the thrill, trying then out for profession of an avenger, of addictive nonsense the everlasting drill...  
I have made long ago a reckless mistake, I has taken for granted the friendly rein, I have not noticed the slippery ice cliff, I have taken forward four more steps,  
I have fallen into waters of the white sea, I was caught like a fish by passing seine, sharp threads of the net have cut my vein.  
I am making the lines, these rhymes on the go, intertwining reality and imagination with seesaw, thus what in them of me have you already saw?  
Not to lie I would have made a solemn vow if only words had any weight in this world, among people who at random come-and-go, but words matter not in the strange world so...  
Wonder, pick at these written many words, try to unravel the thin and yet strong threads, question my probably non-existent motives, look for a bony needle in a haystack of hay,  
Past many translucent needles pass in hastle, unnoticing subtleties you have trodden past, being unable to even see door into the castle until you can see the heart of the knot at last.  
I wish I knew how to play a violin or a fiddle, thought neither the second nor the first one, since I could hardly take the lead or follow, attempting to lead leaves me tired and hollow,  
and to follow I would have had to be shallow. Send my greetings to weeping-or-not sallow, I like not the thought of a whomping willow, and I do not like in grief or anger to wallow.  
I admire the irony, the satire and the sharp wit of brilliant and almost forgotten by now swift, his friends horses, better than some humans; grace of his flight approaches that of swallow.  
I have been waiting for continuation of the cycle, but the time does not seem to flow quickly enough, right now, I have not a drop of patience in me left, I am exhausted, falling apart, pulled apart by wishes.  
There is a wide and quite quickly growing rift between reality of this world and its perception by humanity; addictive rose-tinted misconception is common, they need to get of freedom drift.  
What does the beginning of the universe, the Big Bang, matter, except some imaginative people for their hard work to flatter, when we cannot possibly be able to, or wish to, visit the past,  
When we need through many present crises to somehow last, when Earth's and humanity's condition are deteriorating fast, when to cope with too quickly growing population we must...  
I am running a marathon, gasping for breath, my lungs aren't seemingly large enough, for a sprint I carry too much weight, I have to get something off my chest, I expect not ever have any time to rest.  
Problems cannot be solved in a jiffy, especially when they are intertwined with our daily life, their Gordian knot is almost impossible to untangle, and the world shall soon be put into strife.  
But solution to this present knot can hardly be cutting it by a sharp double-edged sword apart, since it would likely destroy this world: humanity, nature, technology, science - each and every part.  
Sudden, irreversible, simplistic, too-good-to-be-true, and politicized of world engineering dart can hardly solve the problem, restore the balance - most likely, it would only lead to a great hurt.  
It's much easier to attack others than to be by somebody criticized; therefore, for a small start I shall tell that I wholly expect to see in the future geoengineering applied all over the known world,  
But not as one large system protecting the planet against global warming - no, as combination of many small, differing and unique parts used to change weather when a drought or a flood starts Slowly to form in a place, when it can yet disperse. Clouds shall be herded, by nets or by bullets, dispatchers shall organize the separate units to provide the needed, by people and nature, weather.  
The deaths from the read long ago books remembered during a sleepless night add to the dearth of the unnoticable reasons to strongly dislike any bright light, except of the shining, shooting, falling stars.  
There is a thin, delicate line between reality and imagination, and seeing it is necessary for possibility of survival, of salvation of human's mind's pieces after it was broken by starvation, lacking proven facts to maintain human's focus, concentration.  
A human is an actor on the stage of life, played by both himself and others for amusement or worldly gain, with no agreed upon scenario, no fate written or sealed in stone, no destiny or predetermined role.  
On the chess board, are you a pawn or a king? The difference is almost none in your powers, except the king has no future, destined to fight, lest he is captured and, his soldiers' hope, killed,  
Destined to see others dying due to lack of skill, destined to see how the pieces each other kill, destined to send his protectors onto battlefield.  
Intriguing it is that I admire a snake, an adder, a thestral, a dragon, a dragonfly, a flying adder, gracious dancer of sunlight, devil's darning needle.  
The whole rhyming chapter is of thin line, strong link, dusty thorn, double-edged sword, ringing string, sharp arrow, cold dew, fine thread, all that can be summed up in one word.  
Of course, many topics have been touched, and another word could have been used as the title, just like riddle, but the rhyming description of tension and risk was chosen: needle.  
I am impatient to publish the chapter, thus to untie my hands to publish something else, to visit imagined uncharted lands hidden in the vast dead desert beyond the time's infinite sands.  
But the tabby kitten would be angry and stern if too short was the conjured needle... Does anybody catch the reference? Yes, of course, and it seems quite lame in the hindsight.  
I wish good luck to both readers and writers, to those using their imagination, probably daydreaming or building for a better world; I wish good luck to Brennan of the rising night.  
I wish good luck and ability to trust to both Lord Voldemort and Half-Blood Prince. Foundation has almost no visitors, much less permanent writers; I'm, for long time already, thinking About contributing one or two stories to the collection: one crossover with our 'usual reality', world as we know it, and another crossover with Dracula, I imagine it might be shocking To mix robots and vampires in the same book, when the former have not yet been created on our Earth, and the latter are so ancient, prehistoric, that they are thought to be tales rhetoric.  
But have you ever thought why would vampire literature spring up in the eighteenth century, produce the most remarkable story one-and-a-half century later, and then slowly diminish With time, producing only many variations of 'non-traditional' vampires, diminishing their difference from humans, making them into peaceful, non-attacking, humanity-friendly beings,  
As if afraid of their true nature to even think, as if created they could be by a human's blink, as if between either humans' or writers' imagination, and reality of vampires, there is any link.  
But it's not the place to discuss this topic, it is clearly out of line, even adding some rhyme doesn't excuse revealing ahead of time the possible plotline of yet unwritten future story.  
But I shall hope that I will find some time, from nowhere, from empty air, from somewhere, to write down the possible story, to elaborate on the details, to go forward by the rails.  
From my neighbours I might deserve suspicious stares, and lately even occasional sharp and watchful glares, asking who under stress can from work digress, without breaking down.  
But it seems that of invisibility mist through cracks seeps, slowly in the vast valley and among the many hills trickles, as everybody is attracted by the personal computer screen, the mist is spreading everywhere, remaining by them unseen.  
The demon of the hidden mist gains new meaning in the twist, as does the many mirrors' dome, and living freely without a home. The meanings hidden even from the writer, and later seen by a possible freedom fighter.  
If these lines make you laugh, twist your lips into smile, or curve them into sneer, or rain drops fall down glistening like pearls, the writing might have achieved its primary objective.  
Though one of the goals was to express myself, and to exercise my fingers, so the most important aim is not easy to pinpoint; therefore, suitability of word 'primary' here is subjective.  
If you dare to ask me, somewhen, why am I late, to a meeting or an event important to me, where it clearly is in my own best interests to punctually, on time, without a hitch, precisely, be,  
I might give you a reply worthy of silver - catch the reference if you can, but it might too obvious to be seen until explained: I have been walking, stralling, if you please, a piece of stainless steel in hand,  
Away from a building of those who the country diligently from inside defend. I have been walking, amidst a busy crowd, and suddenly seen a sun bright green,  
And unable to contain my astonishment, I attempted to catch it, hoping to share the unusual event with my family, and then my friends at home, in our current lair,  
But fates could not allow any sliver of good luck to reach me, to be put in my care, and therefore the unusual gun turned out to be unresponding, under my stare,  
Requiring a long restart, taking time, due to lack with me of replacement or spare. And yes, for wondering, all of this, about stainless steel, green sun, inoperative gun,  
Is truth, though some of the words have a different meaning than you might assume, such as: I have no weapon, and have never had one, to the best of my knowledge.  
It is confusing, is it not? Good luck I wish you have in abundance got, since I have none for myself, and I doubt that my wishes of good luck to others have any weight.  
I just wish people could understand that poor, rich, naive, cunning, smart, foolish, black, white, red, yellow, dwarfs, giants, are equal, and human's life is better than any treasure.  
Freedom of writing, of speaking, of thinking, of acting, of living, of crying, of laughing, of breathing, of running away is more important than predictable safety or preventive measure.  
No human, tree, insect, cat or dog, no bird, dolphin, whale, no single living, on Earth or not, creature with or without a tail was, is or will be born into killing without remorse.  
Though the humans' imagination could create, engineer, make up an artificial weapon - biological, mechanical, electronical, chimerical - which would probably be even worse. 


	3. Middle

I am seemingly in the middle of everything,  
of each and every humans' strife and conflict,  
I might be cursed with some awful bad luck to live in interesting times like a sitting duck.  
The times indeed are interesting, the middle, the turning point, though probably merely one of the many revolutionary crises that wipe out magnificent cultures of conservative beings.  
I read of one of the last humans on Earth, the last guardian of Earth, long-living, wearing a mask, stronger than a vampire bat, tolerant and peaceful, eyes one icy blue and one warm hazel...  
I read of the planet Earth turned into a museum, a tourist attraction, a zoological garden, a reserve of wilderness, a zone of wars, and returning, evolving beings of old folklore and fairy tales.  
Goes away the Earth... Dying and soon will be dead... Return to your home. Festival is ended and the night begins. Enjoy silence. Learn to understand stillness. Fading colours and sounds.  
War was lost by Earth... And as frightened bird, hope speeds away. And so do we, we go away, we leave our ship, scurrying away like rats... Night rises, night approaches, darkness is upon us.  
Through the hills, through the mountains, through the years of time, by the hot stones, old faithful hellhound runs, forgotten by his oldest friend, him and his friends and allies to find and defend.  
How long will it take to load the gate, to create the portal, to start the carnival of animals unseen,  
of creatures that might have been, because of cookies forgotten in the void, abyss between?  
It's a mistake to attempt a flash, it becomes frozen and you have to begin anew,  
as the glitches are not as rare as you have been led them to view,  
somewhen hard rocks I would probably even agree to later chew  
To free the place from encumbrance of useless decoration, which consumes time and work, akin to a black hole in far away space consuming stars and planets approaching the brink of death.

About my helplessness, uselessness to myself, others, Earth, I stew.  
I am dead on my feet,  
I have frozen midstep,  
I might not even take a hit  
before falling down the cliff steep  
into tired, dreamless sleep  
of exhaustion; wearily I could try to leap  
but powerless, I would uselessly weep.  
It is quite depressing way the newcomers to greet  
who have dared - and managed - to take the plunge deep  
enough to find the rhymes, the lines of diary, and bid good day - or night -  
to the writer who might put to sleep  
the most active people, the most fleet,  
by endless repetition. Or would you say that it is not boring for you when even I sleep, instead of writing it, may?  
I prefer not to get much sleep, anyway.  
Sleep is boring, at least, without dreams,  
and it is mostly dreamless for me, or so it seems;  
I would not notice if I was forgetting the dreams.  
A million and one reasons to keep on living?  
I don't see them; or maybe, I still do, though I do not see how the life is worth living.  
I live not for myself, but for my family,  
our friends, the Earth, our home:  
I fear I would not be able to help if I left,  
so I stay even as I'm afraid that I bring more harm than good.  
Was a solar-powered subway car seen moving, without a human inside,  
after sunset on the dome?  
Acid in my eyes, ants under my eyelids,  
gasping for my breath,  
short gasps through lips. No, thank you, I am not in perfect health.  
What has been the irritating substance in the act, some poison dour?  
No. It has not brought me, or anybody else inhaling it, close to death.  
It was simpler, and yet quite difficult to contain when spilled - flour.  
And that's merely one mistake in the life in this world I lead.  
Is it surprising that I wish in other world to live? In one of those about which I read,  
even if vastly different from what I remember, even in unknown place and undetermined time I would like to tread.  
I am surprised, though I should be not,  
that only a few visitors I have by now got,  
and not one of them has left a review,  
but it's not like the story is long or coherent enough to give it any due.  
The star passing me by was exceptionally bright,  
but not even it could lead me through the night of boredom in which to wallow I have not right,  
especially not during an ongoing fight-and-flight.  
I can only give way to those admittedly surpassing me, and hope that a moment of distraction from my strife  
isn't going, immediately or decades later, somehow cost me my will to fight, my victory, or even my own life.  
Processing experience is my mind, and reacting instantaneously is my arm,  
their inseparable blend is attempting to protect me and my future from harm,  
but it does not guarantee the best luck, unlike a mythical amulet or charm.  
Sleeping I am trying, aiming to be,  
even though to future I should see,  
but I do not make a good fortune-teller, I cannot even see the events of the past,  
for I wish to change the future, avert the death, and history's record does not last,  
As victors erase and rewrite it, it is changing in many directions, for my eyes too fast,  
especially when information overwhelms any single human, and recluses do not last  
in times of cooperation, industrialization, detalisation, separation, stagnation...  
With the time's ongoing progress,  
humans' tolerance tends to regress  
as they find more and more excuses  
for stupid prejudices, which includes  
most of the opinion human exudes.  
Your mood it may likely depress,  
but it is caused by reality's stress  
and the events which time press  
into more work for me, not less,  
which I am going to soon face:  
it is becoming an explosive mess.  
Each detail is like an untied shoelace:  
unpredictable, quite dangerous mess,  
which takes only a moment to fix,  
but the moment might cost you the race,  
while not tying it might destroy your face,  
or worse, your leg, your arm, your health.  
Yourself in others you might occasionally see,  
and then ask yourself: why should I at all be?  
Like shelf of library, the Earth contains all kinds  
of books, of people, and the reader here finds  
both many duplicates of the same redaction  
and of the rarest volume, before-retraction,  
charred, almost burned, invaluable remains.  
Why is it so? The librarians would lament  
loss of any book; lacking not heart but bias.  
It's bias due to which some would torment  
selected individuals more than any others.  
I am too tired somehow to coherently think,  
But I still do not allow myself to ever blink,  
Hoping to get myself back onto the rails,  
Before everything around me down fails.  
I am walking on hot coals and sharp nails,  
I, my eyes, can see neither head nor tails  
Of the serpent which as the future hails.  
I shall fly on my memory's wings,  
And land on the roofs of my past,  
But my will forward to go, to move  
Shall not yet forever be able to last.  
My gait, unfortunately not steadfast,  
May allow my inner spring to rust.  
I have gone through the gates of time and space,  
In the portals' midst I had the white mist to face.  
Their help you'll enlist in case of against time race,  
And up to difficulties, discomfort you shall brace.  
I am in the middle of life, neither learn nor work,  
But hoping to soon combine them both as study.  
I am in the middle of land, neither city nor village,  
But hoping there will be no such difference soon.  
I am in the middle of time, should be going to sleep,  
And yet I have about three hours until waking from it.  
Time zone difference is answer to the latest riddle.  
Extinction and overpopulation - to the previous one.  
Combining learning and creation in study somewhere  
Is the most difficult question, for I know not where  
Place can be flexible enough to suit my imagination  
And yet anchored deeply in reality, not hallucination.  
I am entrenched deeply in the sticky transparent web,  
It is as if I am surrounded by a twisting, alluring herb,  
Ensnaring my senses, clouding in mist my tired mind,  
So that an escape from my boredom I could not find.  
But that still cannot excuse my not ever leaving apathy:  
In the present, for the future, I should be living, active,  
For others, if not for myself, instead of being covered  
In dust, like an out-of-date, boring textbook on a shelf.  
I am not able to beautifully, like a swan, to the world sing;  
I would rather forever live in the eye of the cursed storm  
Than bind the whole world to perfection as the bells ring  
Of the church, of unending of widespread slavery attempt  
Which many people from independence to fanatism swept.  
For the children who blindly believe in a god, I have wept,  
But for myself I should weep, too, for I am absolutely inept  
In controlling the winds of my life, my body and mind inert.  
To the smallest movements of the air, dust I should be alert,  
But I am paralyzed by the many possibilities unknown, left  
Behind by a decision, each and every day; I cannot forget  
Them, as, unsteady, with the wind I sway, unable to exert  
Any effort to emit of the coming danger ray, forever bent  
On visiting once more the sunny, sandy bay. House rent,  
I cannot in this childhood any longer stay; my energy spent,  
I am melting, like candle wax, every day. Who might be sent  
With me, my loneliness, here to stay? Who would tolerate  
My company while I escape into the ink of written worlds?  
I can easily understand, or imagine, the inner world of fiction  
Character, but it doesn't help to interact with an incarnation  
Of similarly unique people around me, even my close friend  
Whom I would, if brave enough by then, with my life defend:  
I hope such danger, threat our way would not be ever sent,  
For neither of us can imagine living without the other; alas,  
We might have to go separate ways in future close, not faraway.  
I doubt whether I shall ever have in the approaching future say;  
That may be why I can hardly survive without writing a single day.  
I am tired, falling down, wanting to break apart, to find then some rest,  
I know no safe place to be not even more hurt; wanting to pass a test,  
Knowing no next goal, stumbling around blind, overwhelmed with zest  
To do anything, to help and to be accepted, not necessarily as the best,  
But as one of equals, at least, hardworking, precise, thorough, pedant,  
Who has an unusual to get into trouble, to tremble and freeze, penchant.  
Despite my stubbornness and easy-going way, self-assurance is scant,  
And I can easily panic, blame myself inside and at others angrily rant,  
Continuing a useless pursuing of ghosts, akin to a harmful witch-hunt.  
I am a hopeless optimist, strangely, for the two of them not a middle,  
But a walking contradiction, which is able to imagine the worst outcome,  
And yet to passively rest, expecting the world better with time to become,  
As if people are not evil, greedy, homicidal, self-destructive, not even some  
Of the living, long dead, and not yet born, of loved and not, of the criminals  
Who were discovered, paid the cost, and those by pursuers quickly lost...  
I might be similar to a blood-thirsty demon, or a vampire, in my worst qualities:  
By myself, like a garden snake during a winter, under the snow, I am apathetic,  
But sometimes, inspired by presence of other people, I can become energetic.  
Mirror, mirror, please, let me see, whom I was, whom I could be?  
I was stung by a falling bumblebee, I was merely trying to let it be free,  
But it could not understand me, falling stubbornly along the glass,  
As actor in meaningless farce, you have bitten me, you, crass,  
Forcing me to resort to the metal shear, to throw you out of the window rear.  
The burns, criss-crossing, insignificant, brown, reminder of inattention on my skin,  
And accidental, small, but painful under strain of the muscles, wound can be seen.  
What is, what was, what will be, why and how, and what could have possibly been?  
In the silence of oncoming of planet destruction you could hear sound of a falling pin.  
Once, long ago, in a far away place, I have made one - or maybe more - stupid mistake,  
Time may flow, and I still have to face it, I cannot forget it any more than an icy snowflake  
Can into clear water thaw while, part of whitest snow, it has others the heat flow to take.  
A steel hound may steadily haunt me, making me gaunt, but I found no objections abound  
To that seemingly impossible event as boredom would not then possibly torment my ground.  
Earth is round, I dislike any sound, especially loud, I wish not to be bound, I have not found  
An interest to latch upon, as a snake hatchling curious I still dream of what cannot ever exist,  
Reading any books, read before or not, watching movies, interesting or not, I can hardly resist,  
From walking through the doors, locked or not, competing, winning or not, I can barely desist;  
I have tendency any words, intentions, my own and of others, to smoothly unnoticeably twist.  
Why do I have this wish an inventory of random thoughts, occurences here in rhymes to list?  
For a long time, person 'two' has uselessly, passively, lazily, thoughtlessly slept,  
Allowing first 'zero', then 'one' to increase to the world of shared creativity debt,  
While I have merely for future of the worlds, the Earth, humanity and nature, wept,  
Crying, madly, inside, but swimming down the tide, actionless, and outwardly inert...  
Why am I still standing, why am I not falling down, through ground, deep into Earth's molten core?  
What is the reason for hysterical laughter of hungry predator, with his vocal chords from howls sore?  
Why am I still reading the boiling mix of fairy tales, myths and lore, of humour, happiness and gore?  
Why am I wishing to add my own two cents to it, when there is already of unfinished stories galore?  
And yet, I do not consider pouring out my thoughts, like glistening blood, from heart, a tiring chore;  
When I tried to contain ideas hatched, like fiery dragons, within my heart, I saw my heartstrings tore.  
I wish I could have lived in the times where people were less uniform, not tied down to one path expected  
From them from their birth, by their environment selected, which was by no person ever chosen or elected,  
But in times of travel free and wide, of information scarce and not second-hand; as you might have detected,  
I am irritated by current redundancy of bureaucracy, travel restrictions; by news overheard, then repeated,  
Unchecked, rumoured, with far-away unknown source, hardly ever combinated with past, or concentrated  
Into an analysis of events, their reasons, aftermath, and possible in future trend - unless by 'scientists' defended Report is granted money, and created by scholars; as if writer's opinion article should not have ever contained...  
Gone the times are when were worthy of waiting for, of listening to; now, they speak of trains and lives derailed  
Far away from readers' home, leaving them amused, mostly unaffected, even as some criminals may be detained  
Long after the crime they commited, with assistance of evidence from the ubiqutous black holes, gleaned, gained.  
I am surprised that on a petty topic, of contemporary newspapers and journalists, I have so lengthily complained.  
I wish could be a tiger; it is of beauty and grace, of loyalty and elegance, of strength and wisdom, entrancing choice;  
But I am afraid it suits me not, for clumsy and taciturn, hardly any politeness I have got, much less a singing voice;  
And I would hardly be able to get black stripes, to extinguish fires, since I would be moving slower than a tortoise.  
I feel like I am not able to do anything at all, only down with the flow of sands of time fall, but I still leisurely stroll,  
As nothing is wrong in this, real, world at all, how can I bear pretending to stand still tall, ignore of death waterfall?  
I am afraid that I will not ever find my true call, as I pensively the similar to marble ball roll, where might I enroll?  
Afraid of choosing, for time I am trying to stall, as if time could gift me with speaking scroll, thwarted then by wall.  
I have not slept this one fruitless night, a bird is hooting, whistling in its flight, I have to risk, and sweet bait to bite,  
I wish I could sleep through the light, for I dislike the harsh sun rays bright, but I have not the sharpness of a kite...  
When victims are killed by predator, you are focused on those who survive to be under the blue, sleepless spotlight,  
Forgetting those who have died, not learning from their possible mistakes, even as survivor cannot sleep through night.  
History of the world and human, trail of running sand, described in rumours, secret documents and legend, is painted  
By victor, or victors, even if they do not at all intend to twist truth, to understand it all they cannot pretend, and 'fainted'  
Would be not worst of their problems if mindset of each and every opponent they wished to comprehend: not 'tainted'  
Logic of the world view would be, but rather... different, like ice and sun, desert and jungle, water and sand, arm and hand,  
And even as they surely might complement each other in a fight, they would still be too much to move together and such.  
It's not easy for a single individual to understand compassionately each person he interacts with, because inner fragility Of heart and mind, of multifaceted crystal, increases with each facet to it added, as each of many sides smaller becomes.  
I live in the middle of warzone, having to go through battles, and every day to my opponents face, but I have no peace where to race,  
And even if I had, I would not debase myself, would not my family disgrace by leaving my allies behind...  
The looks can turn into stone, and as the skill duellers hone, compassion is burned by hot flames which not even tears can supress,  
And our own tails we probably chase, but we will still construct the maze in which nothing you shall find...  
I may be chilled to the bone, but calmness in my mind setlles, my eyes resembling thin icy daze, as I forcibly slumber not in the haze,  
Each mine unnoticed by an untrained ear brings thousand of wounds that do not heal increasing of them well grounded fear.  
Sounds from far away past at my heart, at the heartstrings within it viciously tore, as I observed an unknown of lake shore.  
She said, almost smiling, about the white swan: he is so serious and sad... I wished later to reply, or to lecture, that for his carefulness I am glad,  
Since it cannot know whether the time flow will bring food or stone, poison or keen blow which to dodge it would hardly be able, slow.  
But later, with years I take note of the glow, resembling the whitest of cold winter snow; the star was shining, its moves humanly slow,  
The rays unearthly, both cold and hot the glow, bringing the spring to icy shore, to which they bow, even as forward, to flame, her rays do gently flow.  
I am forgetting myself, seeing the abyss grow, and across it I am less and less likely to throw my effort, and yet shall do that, as I do grow,  
And I wish not to break to myself a solem vow, but why? What am I to myself? Do you know why are you important? Probably, you saw Yourself as centre of universe; by white crow, the universe has no centre or sentience or will. Working, you shall always go, tiredly, uphill,  
Even if some say that Gods help you - still, in the end your success depends on your will, on your choice, on your voice, on your skill.


	4. Kindle

Is it a century, a year or just a month

Since beginning of the rhyming trance?

I rhyme aloud needlessly at least once

During each day, at any casual chance.

Kindle... Might spark an eternal flame,  
Quenchless, which water shall not tame.

Spindle... collects thread woven by time,  
Yarn of events red, black, of war, of crime,  
Occasionally with specks of gold, of chime,  
Of harmony, of hope, of love defying time.  
Cold white snow is mixed with spilled blood

Of people trusting and naive, treated like mud.

Dark flowers are gifted to theater, the fane of beautiful art,  
Dancers strike on the day when child was slain like a mart.  
Time... is not a simple straightforward fated line,  
For fates do not deny your free will and choice,  
and everybody in the flow of future has a voice.  
Neither it is an evergrowing tree with many branches,  
For it would have required of each ever made decision to cut off forever some future possibilities with precision.

No, it is a complex net, intertwined, akin to cellulose in wood or paper from which an origami of panda had in France stood,  
And while, inlike a tree, it adds the possibility of several different ways between two points, it also allows to add the restriction

Of unavoidable points, which have to be passed through, no matter what you change, no matter what you try to do; in fiction,  
These points can be foretold by a prophecy, in hopes that people listen to what Seers say, and find the best to the coming junction way,  
Though some, in their arrogance, do not see the many possibilities, and try to create their own into possible future path,  
But the node, akin to a black hole, twists the approaching realities, and does not shatter under strain unlike a ball of glass.  
In science, albeit inexact and blind, rarely ever by the history tried, for against experimentation on humans most of societies are allied,  
Such crucial nodes are considered as revolutions between socio-economic structures, either already seen somewhere or by utopians foretold,  
And as of the future they are unable to comprehend the vague shapes in swirling mist of everchanging times, these dreams have a strong hold Over hearts of people even as their minds calculate the future, using assumptions of the past, not noticing that changes slowly the future mold Into shapes unseen, which differ from what has been, as much as thestral, unicorn, centaur are different from horse and camel; but let it be told That no magic is required to thus defy the expectations of generations old of future coming; technology can have wizards of its own making...  
Still, these dreams, even when they are wrong, with the society and the people rightfully belong, allowing of the most likely path forsaking,  
Allowing variety and the strangest of history twists and repetitions, beautiful in their unlikeliness, paradox, contrast of unicorn and lion side-by-side.  
I wish I could live without any time spent to sleep, but I am in melancholy so hopeless, dark and deep, that I have no strength of will left in myself to fight

For my imagined, small, and inconsequential right without any sleep to spend, reading-typing, a night, without painful, offending the eyes bright blue light.  
Radio-gramophone... Musical box... For me it's reminder of bitter loss.

My temples throb with headache, and it's my fault for going into cold

Without cardigan, jersey or scarf, only with wind-jammer and gloves,

It was my by old habit made choice, swayed by sun's seemingly warm gloss.  
The headache pounds within my skull,

The pain of it with time growing dull.

My forced calm becomes void and null,

As each death pierces the mind's hull.

How can you possibly at a human fire a shot?

How can you cruelly a sentient life cut short?

How can you, in French, 'donner la mort'?  
Mountain blue mockingbird, creation of snow and ice, whirling in the drifting mist, weaving the ironwork...  
Inky black wave dances in loops, combing the white deserted sand, as it ignores the salt figures around...  
An ugly tree toad, amidst dead leaves, nearby a small mushroom calmly sits; it's not a toad's cap, but an earth-star,  
And a toad's eye can be found beneath the surrounding endless carpet of leaves.  
It is not in a batch, precious is almost alone, and if not for the guardian, it would as stone

Be defenseless; but as true as flint, the toads sits on the chicken egg until the time it shall hatch.  
I am in a quite good mood, I am feeling upbeat, I have eaten again this salad of root of beet,

Even though there might be of my blood a bit, for celestial food this dish still scores a hit.  
I would have had to have got a heart of flint to ignore of any human's pain or suffering hint;  
I would rather have all tea spiced with mint than see suffering of those to whom true as flint

I am, and will be; to wring water from flint I hope I will have to, being not of a greedy tint.  
River flows of scorching lava and radiant molten sunbeams...

Spider ensnared does weave for others plenty of tracery webs...

Sometimes, I wish I could die, so that I would no longer have to hear

Nasty insults carelessly thrown around at the people I hold dear...

But for their future, which could be more dire, I feel arresting fear;

As people uselessly each other apart viciously, painfully tear...

Batty and berry sitting in a tree, and I am one of the people few,

Smiling at them with unhidden glee, without the rose-coloured hue,

Taking pride in being still free, forbidding romance my life to imbue,

From green rich leaves of the tree; even as my eyes far into desert flew,

Torn were roots of my tree, as explosions from my past unchecked grew,

Reminding of fee for so-called bliss: destructive storms which will brew...

Sometimes, often, I wish I grew up in hell, then I would not know how love to feel, I would not have ever felt of others pain, it's a curse, not a blessing, being an empath...

Sometimes, often, I wish I was a raindrop, then I would not know bonds to others, I would freely roll down the withering tree, feeling no at all pain, simply a drop of the rain...

Sometimes, often, I wish I was invisible, then I would not be seen suffering from other's pain, even as I would give up, and no longer myself restrain, they would not use me to amplify the ambient pain...

To waste time, efficiently... Why does not anybody see the humour of that line? Preparing elaborated masterpieces, as if everything was all right, better than fine...

Earth, friend of fire and flame, of the great serpent, trains swift seeking wind, notes the bursts of flames, not knowing their cause is the bond, one of a kind; let the water disappear, let the bond reappear...

Casual comments are those which hurt the most;

Sometimes, often, I wish I could become a ghost,

Who could run far away, in no fear of being lost,

And allow heart to go still, behind the hoar frost...

River flows of scorching lava and radiant molten sunbeams...

Spider ensnared does weave for others plenty of tracery webs...

Glistening are drops of dew and boiling water, glitters the metal

That vedure of grass sheared, but lives and deaths had not decided...

Pain given by crimson powder, blood of the moon and bluebell fire...

Of haunted house, dusty past, deadly game it is description poor...

Dead walking among the living, given the second chance...

Death welcome instead of living, given ever such chance,

Glad I would have been to take, had I known this dance

Death would give me: instead of loneliness, beautiful waltz...

Red feather flying with thunderstorms, untouched by lightning...

Blue feather torn and lost, left behind in frenzy of the war...

Do I have a heart, a soul, a conscience? I don't know myself.

I thank the mild fever for the strange recurring hallucination

Which does not allow me to calmly rest, as a book on a shelf,

And instead pokes me to write, and boisters my imagination.

Flight of green wolves into black tattered sunset... Can you imagine it? Dark rainy day, smell of thunderstorm and lightning in the clouds, as ghostly greyish-green wolves fly through them,

Fly towards the scorched curtain of sunset, tearing it with claws into frayed stripes, disappearing into the night, setting free beings of death: raven and bat, soothsayer, black swan and grim.

Can you see it? Long lost image... Not a century passed, and artist was forgotten... Wet eyes... Are they red?.. I don't see in the night... How can I get the blind man to see of stars the light?

Can you feel it? Human, not sage... It's a vicious, cruel circle, hardly ever ending loop of two or three sleepless people irritated by any noise into yelling at each other, caring not for ears.

Can you hear it? Lion in a cage...

Its growling is fuelling the fire underneath the stage

It treads on, wood boards turning into coals

Confused, I furrow my brow.

They repeat words spoken long ago:

A girl can t spoil herself, you know.

I consider their thinking to be slow.

Human can spoil himself, you know.

It's all about choosing where you go:

Downward with the surrounding flow,

Sideways to stars into which you trow,

Upwards stubbornly as a strong tow...  
But if this song of ours does not contain a single thought,

Why should it be then, please tell me, sung, to air taught?

Because logic is not the only corner stone of the world,

Because logical people should have escape in death sought

To avoiding destroying nature, earth, their entire world

When seeing the acrid mess into which they have by now got.

There are in human powers of which he has not the least suspicion, and if the times are hard - then clench together your teeth, it is not easy to compose your of life song.

But if the human is dead as stone,

If the human has not a lively bone,

Why should he by Earth be borne,

Why should he by light be shone?

Because who are you to condemn the dead,

Who are you to decide they shouldn't be fed,

Who are you to be sure that they shall be glad

And welcoming the death with a stretched hand?

If the thieves walk in the cloudy skies,

What are we doing here, on Earth?

We are restoring the torn apart ties,

Restoring nature and humanity both.

And the judge says that the point is in the law, yet the priest that it is in love. But by the light of lightnings it becomes clear of each and every one hands are stained with blood.

I have seen the classified maps, I know whither we sail. Captain, I have come here to bid farewell to you, to you and your steam ship.

Somebody said that having multiple personalities is akin to having several different souls, replacing each others from time to time,

But I would describe the feelings as shattering the crystal orb into fragile sharp shards, separating balanced light into bright rainbow,

Bright rainbow, akin to the one created by shining sun in falling rain, tears of Gaia's pain, an eyes-hurting bridge to places unknown,

To places unreachable, wished for, desired deeply by heart, yet unattainable, conflicting against each other - reap what you have sown,

Observe from the sideline as your soul is shattered into shards, and shards are reduced to fine dust, painful to inhale, for yourself mourn.

I dislike both the cancer, the tumour, the illness plaguing the humanity for reasons often unknown, and the chemistry, the forced unreliable cure,

I dislike both the early, unexpected, untimely, hardly ever earned death, and the artificial, stringent, painful, destructive, synthetic, brewed health,

I prefer life natural, health earned by not destroying environment thoughtlessly, by not attacking people needlessly; I prefer health and life pure,

As water in mountain stream, not distilled, not kettle-finished, with salts, fishes, plants, stones and microbes, of freedom the unforgettable allure.

I am feverish and restless,

Brave, naive, and reckless,

Thoughtless and careless,

Insouciant, also heedless,

Acting flippant

And nonchalant,

Not at all gallant...

I wish I was a rousette flying in the night,

My stressed eyes are hurt by bright light,

I wish I had strength to rise up and fight,

My goals long disappeared from my sight.

Separate the closest star, the brightest sun, from its crown, helmet and plume, suck it dry, until it's white, and throw away the shriveled of orange husk...

Laugh at the passing car of white-and-blue passing down the calm amidst fume, wish them luck with useless task as in the world it is of the wars dusk...

You used to cry wolf, to order others around, to lift all the heavy weight... You silently cry in pain, merely smarling aloud, bear of loneliness freight.

You are buried deep in the ground, under the soil, You are killing people who under knowledge toil Of you, and their lives you quickly thwart and foil,

What are you? Known as gold jewel, acting as mine. Your of deaths score would cause them recoil From you, replacing thoughts of the possible spoil.

I listen to words of others, and then repeat them as if they were my own,

Sometimes I wish I could fly far away into the deep, with pearl stars, skies,

Sometimes I wish I could in a nameless shallow calm river slowly drown,

Sometimes I wish I could avoid knowing that each second somebody dies,

Sometimes I wish I could know how to reap exactly what I have sown,

Then I wish I could, like Gamayun of sorrow, the world change with my cries.

For the world I shall grieve as I do not forgive, I do not forget:

Both mine mistakes, and those of others, I shall forever regret.

Sometimes, mostly when I am alone, I am grinning widely, without an apparent reason for such happiness, like a loon.

Those who see me, who might notice my grin, must be thinking, assuming, guessing that I am over the full bright moon.

But it would be an error; downwards I am spinning quickly, without a parachute the flight might already be over soon.

Neither my friends nor my enemies would win, over my 'death', any fame or wealth, peace or health, or any other boon.

But still, something in this world, reality is pinning me down, to sadness and grief, mourning early at morn, eve and noon.

I wish I had seen cascade of water from a lin, falling drops, mixed with my tears for both innocent child and cunning coon.

I wish I could become one with the wind, the gale, the storm, the lightning falling from the clouds, flying in the air like a ball,

I wish the gravity would no longer me bind; of tale, lost form then wearing I would adopt shrouds, gladly, if chance did call.

As kindle smothered by bitter smoke of older flame,

To single an offered hand I would consider fair game,

And ingle I wish I could have been, but all the same,

To mingle reality and dream is not my mood, my aim,

A spindle of fates spins, laying upon my future claim.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

If wishes were poems, dreamers would write

Of wishes whole odes, and each - one-of-a-kind.

Robot can be scared like a child,

Crying is great exercise,

Speaking of piano and food crisis,

Roads into impossible it can find,

Sounding randomly wise...

I have been walking in a desert, my skin is hot and dry,

It craves for cold water, yet richly spiced food you fry,

It is delicious, this fact I neither can nor wish to deny.

There is nobody around to guide me, to show me where myself to aim,

As I am running towards cars blindly, there is nobody but me to blame,

Bicycle whistles past my ears sharply, I am wheezing as I continue to run,

The sun is shining from the sky brightly, as I wish there fell a freezing rain,

A downpour, a thunderstorm almighty, to destroy those who honesty claim,

To run freely, to fly quickly and lightly, to sweep away restraint and bound,

Which had kept everyone fixed tightly, to release nightmare and hellhound...

Is peace too much to wish for? Apparently, amidst the humanity it is unfeasible.

Is solitude the end I should seek? Difficulty of speaking with others is incredible.

It is as if I was speaking Greek, for my attempts at compassion solely cripple Carcasses of undead love reeking of anger and accusations, and already feeble.

The embers of both love and anger, care and envy, self-reliance and competition are smouldering, warm by touch, still,

It seems to me, it is felt by me, that I feed, live on insults, spoken aloud or imagined somehow, in my presence,

It seems to me, it is felt by me, that I am energized, heartened

I wish it was not complete, I wish it could forward go,

I know neither the history, the past, nor the future dawning on us, on humanity,

I am not one for adventure, I prefer a walk quiet, slow,

I wish for silence and peace to last, but in dream of eternal peace lies insanity,

I avoid tragedy, though the Death I shall deeply hallow,

I seemingly enjoy drama and angst, disliking useless pain, bestead by urbanity,

I am against sacrifices 'for greater good', their seesaw,

I prefer seeing underneath the underneath, and avoiding pointless lies and vanity.

I feel that I am running around as one headless chicken,

As my resolve to win, to live, to survive starts to weaken,

But still, a threat to others will cause my heart rate quicken,

And pointless torture still would me certainly quickly sicken...

I am sneezing a lot, this whole morning, half a dozen times by this time,

Who is speaking somewhere about me, as if I have committed a crime?

They think they have learnt to evade and dodge the punches by them thrown,

That the time of fights and the experience of snarls their skill noticeably hones,

But blood flows like water from deep gashes unseen, their health has not grown,

Their eyes are blinded by the past, by red haze of danger which is felt in bones.

I feel like a raw oat in the moist soil waiting for the hopefully coming spring,

I feel like a small boat sinking in sea, waiting for break of the tearing string,

My absurd fearlessness will surely, inevitably be soon, very soon my undoing,

Since many a threat to me is outside of the house quickly and steadily accruing,

The house of cards will fall apart in the midst of many a terrible storm brewing,

Black spades might be the card in my hands when all is scattered far and wide...

Silent tears shed, unseen and falling down, bitter with salt, from the living beings gasping for breath like a fish on the white hot sand,

The coral reefs are rotting, turning brown, their beauty lost for the next generation, beauty of black and red corals, of butterfly fishes...

Have you ever seen among the fishes clown? From the change there is no salvation, for the climate change is coming and it is too late

To stop completely, to prevent the climate change, the global warming. Annihilation of the world as we know it shall happen with time,

And we can only try to have some reserves, living memorials of the past, by grasping the specimens of the ecosystems which disappear too fast,

By remembering the beauty, and being able to recreate, restore it, when the environment becomes less harsh to them, and acid is removed

From this world, however difficult it is to achieve... Grandness of corals you can hopefully perceive; no reason for deliberate destruction of them I can fathom.

I am afraid that I may be troubling the mindless hungry fearsome beast by striking my head against the corners of the dark, escapeless cave,

But I hope to destroy the fragile frozen beauty of silken weave that holds us all in sticky tangled web by my incessant rolling forward wave,

To free the moving beauty of the dreams and possibilities and random chances growing into an ageless tree, to once again the dream save

From ugliness of stone statuette and deadly stillness of mummia, to crush the good intentions which may somehow the road to hell pave...

I wish real life could be as simple as accruing some gold

And leaving to the far away rosy lands of beauty untold,

Beauty praised, and sung of, by the snow white swans

In their last song, by the frozen lake, in their last dance,

As grim death then takes them, by a plot or by chance,

They sing of the fairy beauty, and of the fateful glance

Which can only be seen by an innocent, pure soul once...

No, I have not done a turnaround; I am still in the stance

Of fighting the world, protecting, when I have a chance,

My family, those dear to me. But this vision, this trance

Is a nice, fascinating tale to forget myself in, for once...


End file.
